Читать книгу geode - Susan Barba - Страница 15

In the ocotillo’s arms

the red cranes roost.

The desert is creosote

in a clay pot.

The clarity of a single plant,

potted in sand

almost as old as dust,

mulched with pebbles

that remember their late rivers.

The plant is seconds old—

green stripling!—

in the gnomic earth.